Delight, Delectation, Divine
by snshyne
Summary: I know what you feel, before you do. Your emotions are my sustenance. I can bend you, I can break you and never have to touch you. AH/OOC. Dark themes warning. For the Beyond the Pale Contest.


**Beyond the Pale Contest**

**Title: Delight, Delectation, Divine.**

**Pen Name: snshyne**

**Characters: Jasper**

**Disclaimer: All things recognized as Twilight, belong to Stephenie Meyer. I just borrowed them.**

**Image that Inspired You: Image Ten (Police caution tape)**

**To see other entries in the Beyond the Pale Contest, please visit the C2 page:**

**www{.}fanfiction{.}net/community{/}Beyond_the_Pale_Contest_Entries{/}83159**

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PhoenixMP3 gets extra doses of my love for her unconditional whip yielding to keep me in line.

**Warning: **This may be considered dark by some. That is all.

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**Delight, Delectation, Divine.**

**Jasper Whitlock**

I stood across the street, idling on the corner as the area swarmed with people; red and blue lights flashing against the slick yellow tape blocking off the vicinity of the scene. The ground was wet and the scent of cold rain lingered in the air, but that wasn't all. The aromas of confusion, disgust, shock, curiosity, and fear all wafted around like the air surrounding a perfume counter I frequented with mama on Saturday afternoons. I reveled in it.

I have always been keenly aware of what mama called "the human condition;" emotions, needs, and wants. The ability to pick up on their reactions to stimuli came naturally to me. Hunger, desire, happiness, anxiety, fear...

As a youngen, sitting by daddy while he played a game of blackjack with the local boys was how I first noticed I could..._sense_ things. He used to call me his good luck charm and then slap a fiver in my hand for helping him win. In truth, I gobbled up the high of his happiness with winning and that was a huge motivating factor.

The older I got, the more aware I became of my surroundings. It was easier to sense when Miss Cope, my Sophomore English teacher, was feeling agreeable. It wasn't in the way she dressed or how she spoke, because Miss Cope was very stagnant in her demeanor. No, it went deeper than that. It was like a small flutter, maybe like the wings of the moths outside by the porch lamp at night. But I could sense it and I made it work to my advantage. My classmates always thanked me in kind, by keeping my mustang clean or making sure I never lacked beer on a Friday night, for persuading her to postpone a test or a due date for a paper on some dead English guy.

Over time, I began to realize that it went beyond just sensing people's moods, I could manipulate people through them as well. I never understood the science behind it, I was always a more hands on kind of guy anyway, but mama called it charisma - my charm bending people to my will. It was my charm that got me to the door, but my intangible knack to pick up on things unseen put the keys in my hand.

It was never anything they did, you see. Rather, it was like an emission of the soul. A sour mood was like inhaling gas fumes from a car gone too long without the proper care, but a good mood was like the purest iced tea on a scorching summer day. The best, though, was that spike of adrenaline. Better than all the rest, like the initial eruption of a glorious orgasm as the tasty desert to a good and aggressive fuck.

I tasted that desert for the first time when I accidentally knocked Emily Young off the Glider at the county fair Senior year. I was so caught up in the sensation of it all; her shock, her anxiety, her fear. It tasted so sweet, it caught me by surprise, sending me into a heady daze of bliss and I barely heard the sound of her body as it hit the ground. None of it registered until everyone else's shock started to settle around me.

It was as if I was transplanted to another space. Another plane between this world and the next. I never wanted it to end.

Nothing else felt the same after that. Nothing.

I craved it, yearned for it and when I couldn't have it, I felt like I had to do anything to get it.

I was an addict. An addict with no desire to come clean.

It all became a game. Like cat and mouse, red light-green light, hide and go seek. Games of chase and taunt, seeing how far you could push the limits. Except, it was no longer about how long you could hide before your bladder started to nag or how far you could run before 'red light' was yelled out. It became how long would you last before you gave up to your own fears?

I soon found out that people will do just about anything to avoid suffering. To suffer, was the greatest pain of all. And every person had their breaking point.

I normally walked about like a normal person, mingling with those around me who had nothing better to do. I could sit by the fountain in the park, under the giant oak tree and strum my guitar to the tune of the happy children who squealed every time the water jumped from a spout. Their pure happiness making me more raw to the sorrows of the adults around them. And knowing that their pure happiness wouldn't last, always caused me to rush from that park. The urge to let them trail off in the ever after, with the last memory of happiness lingering, would get to be too strong.

The worry of the passerby, afraid they're going to be late or nervous that they may have left something behind would often fuel me during the day; especially in the morning. Like a jolt of coffee to the less gifted individual.

The aggravation of the person whose lunch was fucked up by the local diner or the dismay of the man rebuffed by the girl in the bar, always kept me amused and provided brief entertainment like a television sitcom to the couch potato.

But those fleeting emotions never held my interest for long and were never suitable for my favorite past time. They were superficial and never went deeper than the surface.

So when I came across the coffee shop on the corner of Main and Boulder, I was literally stopped mid-step by the strong compulsion to...control. It wasn't angry, but it was strong, driven, craved. Similar to how I got into this game in the first place. A strong, undeniable need for something.

I followed the lure of the urge to the beholder and came upon a peculiar man, sitting by the window in the coffee shop. He wasn't peculiar in the way he dressed or by any outward marks. He was peculiar in that, as I watched him, I realized that any ounce of disorder or lack of control would clearly drive him to insanity.

A new patron entered the shop, causing a gust of wind to blow through, shifting the man's carefully placed napkin hardly a tenth of an inch, but I felt him start to freak out. Other than a short huff through his nose, he showed no outward signs of distress. Yet, I couldn't ignore the smile that tugged at my lips as he exerted an extraordinary amount of emotional energy to move that napkin back into place.

I followed him around the city, followed him home and watched him. I watched as he fruitlessly tugged at his hair, the one thing he seemed unable to bend to his need to control, and felt the dire frustration it caused him. Expressed outwardly by a few beads of sweat on his brow.

Even in his slumber, he fretted. It was like a constant stress strain and it felt so good. Edward, as I learned from looking into his mailbox, was obsessive compulsive. Methodical and precise was his deal. Everything else was unacceptable.

In my years of experience, it's been more common that I would have to rely on my manipulation more than anything. However, in this case, the antithesis of the order he craved was far too easy to prey on. Chaos, disorder, confusion, they became weapons in my arsenal.

It started out slow and steady. The magnification of aggravation when the newspaper left out on the perfectly centered mat on the front porch was at an odd angle, a well-placed flourish of frustration as his tie blew across his face from the force of the cool breeze. Little things that the average, less compulsive person would never bother to care about. But to a person driven by control and order, it would become a screw, slowly digging into their sanity.

All the while, his plight became my joy. And all it took was a little concentration on my part.

I tested him for a few days. Every day, I would watch and sense his anxiety increase form any kind of disorder in his life, but it got boring after a while. It wasn't enough. I soon realized that I would have to actively participate in the disruption. I suspect that even though disorder and chaos caused him great stress, part of him was able to acknowledge that he couldn't control worldly factors, and he had learned to adapt to this fact.

When it came to his personal realm, that was a different story all together. The day I snuck into his house, while he was at work, was when things started to get mighty interesting.

If it wasn't for the dire thirst for the high anxiety I craved, I would have laughed at his utter confusion.

I watched in the shadows as he entered his domain and I recognized his growing distress from the moment he crossed the perfectly polished threshold. Yes, even the minor things in his home that others would overlook were treated with extensive care.

His attention to detail was something to write home about, and it almost seemed to be such a waste, for such a precious skill. _Almost_.

Every day was a new treat for me. A book pulled to stick out on the shelf caused a frustrated grunt and a savory exertion of energy. A fork placed upside down in the perfectly aligned silverware drawer forced him to take everything out and re-align them again. And when he realized a knife was missing, I could feel his desperate desire to understand where it had gone.

Sadly, this game didn't last long. We went on like this for about a week. My chaos escalations met by his overcompensation to restore order in his domain. And then it happened.

He was so distraught over the disruption in his life, that he was completely off balance. So much so, that he actually started screwing up on his own. It was beautiful chaos, like a black and white photo of downtown after a hurricane passes through.

His brain was on overdrive trying to reconcile his ingrained need for control with the disorder that was surrounding him, coupled with an overwhelming sorrow at his subconscious realizing the futility of his conscious efforts, to control the uncontrollable. My body was tingling with over stimulation, slowly built...

It was a Friday night, and Edward was tearing through his home looking for something. What? I can't be sure as I no longer needed to assist in the creation of disaster, he was all on his own. There were cries and bangs, screams and crashes as he ransacked his house.

Then, just before it all stopped, a wide smile formed on my face, as I relished the sweet nectar of his defeat. I didn't need to stick around and watch, I could sense it! I did pick up the paper the next day, though, to see the opener on page two, "Local Assistant Chief of Emergency Surgery Found Dead." I skimmed the article to find out he took an ice pick to his temple and the case was open and under investigation.

I tossed the paper on the table in the coffee shop where he used to drink his morning coffee. Black, one sugar packet, stirred nine times. The seat now sat vacant and for a second I wondered if anyone would notice his peculiar methodology in his absence. I should have felt bad. But it felt so good.

His destruction was my delight.

Another favorite of mine was Jacob.

I had taken a side job at Newton's Sporting Goods. Not because I needed the cash - being the sole beneficiary in my parents life insurance policy had pretty much set me up for life - but because I liked the high energy that ran through the place. It was a regular stop for locals and tourists about to head off on a trail, going camping or engaging in some kind of river sport. Sometimes, I'd accompany some of the adventurers on their trips and their excitement was delicious. Working there was like taking a maintenance dose of medication and it kept me even. Most of the time.

Jake was a newbie. Blown in fresh off the road from heartbreak or some such nonsense. When he first started to come in, he would gripe and groan about some girl he loved who chose someone else, even though he knew she loved him. I was pretty sure he had hit his head one too many times during one of his extreme activities; his story didn't make a damn bit of sense.

It didn't take very long for Jake to get into a stride and shake of that heartbreak chill, which, I have to say, was a major downer for me. Even though his overall demeanor had shifted, I didn't really want to deal with him because he smelled like our family dog, Blue, after hours of being outdoors. I reckon his thrill seeking had a lot to do with that. They just didn't make a deodorant strong enough to combat his sweat glands.

The best thing about Jake was he was wrapped up in a nice comfy cushion of delusion that he was somehow indestructible. If his skin was as thick as his head, maybe. Because you'd have to be made of solid marble to think nothing could harm you and there being any bit of truth to it. But I wasn't his therapist, and it wasn't my place to judge his mental stability.

Truth be told, I couldn't care less. The less stable, the more fun and the essence of his feelings of invincibility was almost as strong as his awful scent.

Being around Jake was like how I imagined sitting on a puff cloud of hot air would feel like. Soft, warm and like an overstuffed down pillow, but it got boring. It was too even and I preferred the erratic spikes and dips.

Jake's insistence that he was invincible made him sloppy. There was always a loose tie on a raft, low batteries in the helmet he used for spelunking, or a carabiner that was mistreated and went rusty. From a comparative standpoint, Edward and Jacob had a single similarity - their delusions were in the driver's seat.

In contrast to Edward, Jacob required very little assistance from me. I accompanied him on a few hikes, heightened his false sense of security by concentrating on his thrill seeking spirit. On occasion, he'd come into the store and I would be sure to focus on him, make sure he had more than enough exuberance for his next adventure.

I never knew which time would be _the_ time, but I secretly hoped that I would be there for it.

_Feeding_ off him, for lack of a more eloquent term, on a regular basis left me near total satisfaction. I anticipated that the final taste would push me to the point of stuffed and sated. A comparison to a good home cooked meal back at mama's, where daddy always had to undo the top button to his dungarees afterward.

The day Jacob and I took out a rented raft for a day on the rapids proved to be a very good day. For me, at least. I was happy I decided not to take Maria, from the cafe next door, up on her offer for breakfast. That woman had been after me for years, but I knew she was looking for a husband and I'm just not the marrying type. I can't be tied down to predictability and doldrum devotion. Not to mention, how do I explain my extracurricular activities?

"Uh, baby? I'm gonna step out for a minute and find an emotion fueled, unbalanced person to satisfy me, by getting stimulation from manipulating their emotions to the point of death? Want me to get some milk on the way home?"

I don't think that would sit too well with most, even somewhat, adjusted individuals.

The lack of effort with Jake was akin to sitting down while a pretty girl handles you with her mouth, and all you need to do is set her head to the tempo you prefer. I just had to make sure Jake didn't fall below the mid-line and into the realm of sappy and simpering, which was always draining on me.

Jake chose the bright orange raft. He always chose the orange raft because he insisted that people needed to see him as he flew down and conquered the rapids. At Newton's, all our gear is kept up to standard, but it's not our fault if it's misused by a patron.

That was Jake's downfall.

He hopped into the raft without checking the tether line, because he was too excited to care about safety precautions. He also refused the tow raft service that the park patrol provides, stating he was far too experienced to need something so amateur.

The raft snapped from the dock and started to drift down stream before he could get fully secured in the boat. Any normal person would have been frightened to death, but not Jake. His adrenaline kicked in and was pumping full force. A salty, sweet nectar saturated the air and I swear, I almost felt it on my tongue.

I could feel his heart pumping loudly in his ears and my palms started to sweat on the grip of my oar as I paddled down the river behind him. He started to gain a little more control and was hollering and yelping like a cowboy chasing a herd of cattle, leaving a feel good trail in his wake.

He was so fueled, that he didn't notice the patch of rock just in front of him. You see, in Jake's haste, he also forgot to strap in properly. In his rush to glory ride down the river, he neglected to be mindful of the area he allegedly knew too well to need assistance.

His raft capsized and Jake went under. I sensed his underwater cries for help, but it was only me and him as far as the eye could see and like a prisoner starved for his next meal, I was not passing this up.

I've heard that death by drowning is the most painful way to die. I have to say, that I still can't be sure if that's true. For Jake's death gave me nothing but pure pleasure.

His downfall was my delectation.

Remarkably, or perhaps not, the women always had better endurance than the men. I reckon it was likely due to all the bullshit they've already suffered in life. Hell, I sensed their stress and worry all around me every day! Men's paled in comparison. I typically didn't know the route cause unless I targeted a woman or I happened upon one of those chatty ladies, who couldn't help but spill her life story. I felt their pain! Sometimes, I wished I could wipe them all out for their own sake, but that wouldn't be fun for me.

Women were also always the most fun.

This brings me to my prize work, Rosalie Hale. For if I had a trophy wall, I would most certainly mount her on it. Rosalie, such a pretty girl. On first assessment, fierce and determined like a lioness in the wild, but deep down, she was like a scared cub trying to get their bearings.

I watched the EMT's lift her body from the ground and place it into a navy blue bag, the shiny zipper glinting in the street lights as it zipped up to cover her golden hair. She had lasted the longest of all my games. Took me damn near two months to break her; and what a good two months they were.

What made Rosalie exceptional was that she had a tough wall to crack. She had created this persona of arrogant indifference that was so unlike who she actually was. People around her feared her, wanted to be her, or hated her, but would never declare it. I have to remark on how there was about a three to six foot parameter, depending on the space, around her at all times.

Everything she did was an effort to keep people from getting close.

I tried everything I could think of, to break through her exterior, and every time I thought I managed to throw a wedge in her wheel, she would bounce back. At a distance, I couldn't just bring her deeper feelings to the surface, because they were buried so far in the depths of her soul, I could just barely sense them.

She guarded her heart well, but one day, I caught onto something. It was fleeting, but I felt it. A pain of loss and rejection. A pain that one could only really relate to after being hurt and tossed aside or passed over. The kind of agony that would make one create a wall thicker than a bank vault.

I concentrated to try and come across that feeling again, but it was so rare, I had to focus almost all my energy to find it. Eventually, I started to notice it would sometimes be present when she glanced in the mirror, but only accidentally. This coincided with her steeling her nerves just before she went to intentionally look in the mirror. Like, she needed to prepare herself.

I tested the waters, sent her a pretty arrangement of lilies and a savory batch of expensive chocolates and lay in wait to gage her reaction. The shock and appreciation at receiving something nice and then her disappointment for not knowing where they came from. There was a small glimmer of hope that started to peak through, but never fully blossomed due to her debilitating reluctance and fear.

I noticed that on her walk home from work, to her studio above the Boulder Bakery, her heart would race and her pulse would basically beat out of her neck, but it wasn't from exertion as if she was running; she was afraid. And if a man approached her, she would retract backward like a frightened kitty.

No, I didn't know what happened to Rosalie Hale and I didn't care, but I found my way in and the trick was to never get your hands dirty, but to rely on less quantifiable skills.

When I was a boy, I used to 'dance with my shadow' mama would say. It would stand along our fence by the barn and I would try to jump away from it, but it always followed me. Shadow dancing, a childhood past time, would lead to a skill I would need for my prize score.

You see, Rosalie never looked around her on her walk home. She was almost as stiff as a two-by-four as she walked through the streets with tunnel vision to her destination. On her walk home, the sun would be setting and shadows would be cast in front of you. It was imperative that I stay within her shadow to stay close enough to cause her alarm, but never be noticed.

I would have to stay a certain distance, no less than four feet behind her, as I was taller, and always slightly to her right to avoid being seen. It was surprisingly easily and fun. In a deranged way. I never could understand why someone so afraid would pay no attention to their surroundings. But I guess it's like a child afraid of the monster under the bed - they don't look so they don't have to be scared by what they might find.

Once I cracked her code, it became somewhat simple to break her. All I needed was time.

Gifts during the day at random. Never expected by the recipient, but always appreciated. Letting the ground soften and longing sprout, an unauthorized, accompanied walk in the evenings undetected. Creating an air of increased fright as time went on.

It took two months to break down Rosalie Hale, frightened kitten. Too bad she didn't have nine lives when she jumped from the small porch of her studio apartment to escape the madness she thought her brain created.

Her demise was my divine.

I shucked the cigarette from between my lips and stubbed it out with the heel of my boot. I tipped my hat to her memory, before turning and heading towards the local bar down the road.

I could hear the commotion inside as I approached, the feelings of a false high created by libations and crass music. Something else was there, though. A natural high, happiness, expectation, desire. A shudder rolled through me as I digested each one.

I stepped inside, drawn by the pure essence inside and strolled up to the bar. I stood there for a moment, trying to feel it out. Pinpoint exactly where it was and how I could reach it.

"What'll it be?" The portly man wearing a well-worn Cowboys jersey asked.

"He'll take a double Glenlivet, straight up," a tinkling voice answered.

I turned to see this fairy of a thing with wide gray eyes and a pretty pink mouth smiling at me. It was then that I honed in on her and everything she was emitting. Strength, passion, intrigue, moxie, challenge...

"Alice Brandon, of the Buloxi Brandon's," she nearly sang as she glided forward, coming closer to me, "you kept me waiting long enough, sugar."

"I apologize, ma'am." I could feel the smirk tugging at my lips as I replied. "How can I be of service?"

"'Ma'am' is for grannies and school marm's, Jasper." I gaped at her in shock for knowing my name, wondering how that were possible. By her reply, I knew she read the question in my eyes. "Oh, I know a lot of things, sugar. We're going to have tons of fun." She giggled softly, then picked up her drink from the bar top, the red tint paled in comparison to her delectable mouth. I watched, as she swirled her tongue around the straw before taking a sip, in bliss as I sensed her own feelings of excitement and desire that matched my own.

"Whatever you say, darlin'."

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**Thank you for reading!**

**xx**


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